3:16am
by JimPrimm
Summary: Many things can go wrong in only a minute, though when given 20, Gilbert Beilschmidt, a fierce serial killer known as "The Publisher," finds himself pushing an anxious Canadian from his own bedroom. Matthew found it unrealistic to develop affection towards your kidnapper, but given the circumstances, he realizes it is almost natural. PruCan, future USUK(?) Firstfic! R&R?


...Sup!** This is my fist fanfic story, sorry if my writing is a bit bland, I'm trying to improve so I guess this is kinda like practice XDD Constructive criticism along with tips are welcome! Also, I would recommend listening to 3:16am, by Jhene Aiko, I was roughly inspired by it, and it's an amazing song. I hope you enjoy~**

* * *

><p>Too many things were interrupting Matthew's train of thought, one being the excessive music, proudly making the house quiver with upheaval as his own home was overfilled with dozens of underage-drunks.<p>

Another being the sirens that pierced through the summer night, which were _conveniently_ high enough to drill through the obnoxious music. It was a Friday night, and Matthew was trying desperately to complete his summer reading assignment, while Alfred, his brother, had different plans; throwing a huge party to utilize the final days of summer break just seemed...natural. In _his_ aspect.

The last being the generous amount of three beers, each with some cliché brand hugging the tin cautiously as the alcohol fogged Matthew's mentality.

He found himself trapped in his room, nodding off, despite the music, as he tried to read _Crow's Row_, an incredibly boring novel in which a girl finds herself kidnapped, then begins to develop romantic feelings towards her captor. How unrealistic, Matthew thought. As his mind was pressured on the topic of crime, his eyes wandered to the television in his room, which had illuminated his room with the raving news.

There had been yet, another shooting in Matthew's area, and the sirens piercing the ears of many saved no time proving otherwise. The screen flitted through different images of the conflict, live footage of the helicopters searching helplessly in the night sky for the perpetrator, many of which illuminated the dull setting with bright beams of light.

The works were not foreign; the criminal was persistent as to proving his specialty in managing the death of others. The man had a talent in crime, and liked to show it, mostly through spelling out words with the initials of his victims. For this he is dubbed "The Publisher" which is somehow supposed to represent his creative ways of committing series of murders and arrays of kidnappings. Which reluctantly brought Matthew back to the _Crow's Row. _

It was a mystery to Matthew as to how the novel made its way into the reading list, most of the stories he had read strayed away from romance. Which he dearly respected; romance was a rather touchy subject for Matthew. He was confused as to what he was to portray as love or admiration towards others. Alfred was always the bolder half, and Matthew mentally noted it was under Alfred's care to enthuse affection towards the public.

He never had a hard time realizing he wasn't much of a character either. The Canadian was pathetic under the eyes of his parents, which were off on a business get away; explaining the unsupervised party. It was always explained to him that he was too quiet for his own good, however, portraying anything but a shy and submissive role had completely gone against the boundaries he intellectually set himself in life.

Shut up and listen, but not too much, because secrets can and will leave scars. Let Alfred be the hero. Never allow others to appear important. Deceit is your best friend. Only use 100% pure maple syrup on pancakes. And under no circumstances, no matter the situation; admit to yourself that you are—

He lifted his head from his book to the sound of a vibration; glanced at the black, and most definitely outdated, _Motorola Razr, _a phone enveloped with a series of scratches he never found the need to treat; a small screen emanating a surge of bright blue light. Turning his head, he wondered if this was just a prank, a rather cliché situation, and peered at the clock on the wall. 3:00 AM.

He felt to ignore the call, but found his hand reaching towards the device in spite of him. The number did not appear on the screen, and it appeared rather conspicuous to the young Canadian, that someone, indeed, was calling him. This was somewhat unnerving, shouldn't people be sleeping by now, though that notion contradicted against the dozens of drunks beneath him.

"Hello," he held the phone up to his ear, and waited for a channel of laughter to deluge from the surprisingly worn speaker, confirming his intellect of it being a foolish prank. But, there was no laughter, not a single snicker, at that. The line almost sounded dead. "H-Hello?" Matthew tried again, his nerves growing anxious. Nothing. The line was blank for a good minute or so.

Sighing, his hand twitched to close the phone, though was stopped short as a jagged huffing broke the silence; quick rasps of muffled breaths. Through the serrated, labored breathing, he could match the sirens circulating through his ears to the ones ringing outside his home. Though he found it was almost inaudible as the music downstairs only seemed to be getting louder.

Matthew nervously hopped off his bed, abandoning the novel; mentally cursing as he realized he didn't mark his current page. How could he worry of such things at a moment like this! "Alfred?" Matthew called out, "Alfred is this some sort of prank?" There was no response, like before, the caller continued to huff, and the sirens never ceased in their distress.

Again, he glanced at the clock, 3:05. He was arguing against himself whether to close the phone or keep listening. Surely it wasn't a prank; no idiot would stay on the phone this long for sheer amusement. The breathing was distressed and caused Matthew to believe there had to be an incident tied in this. Perhaps the caller was in need of help, and Matthew was upon their first instinct of calling.

Matthew was too caught up in his thoughts, he didn't notice, nor hear the latch lift on his window, or the figure crouching on the roofing outside.

"At any rate, with a posture like that, you'll be struck with back pains by the time you're 20," A voice broke, causing Matthew to whip around; throwing his phone in the process, though with his weak arm; landed only a few feet from him. His eyes surely have widened to that of a golf ball, and his heart jumped to the back of his throat.

He was too startled to realize that the voice had been referring to his poor back posture, something his mother had constantly nagged him of. His mouth was dry, and he couldn't find the words to say. His eyes focused on a strange looking man, looking no older than himself, with wildly dyed white hair that fell above his shoulders in grungy waves, and eyes hidden by a pair of red-colored contacts.

Surely, he is one of Alfred's friends, just mindlessly wandering around, running mainly on alcohol. Yes, that sounded right, it wasn't the first time after all.

"And don't you know it's rude to hang up on someone like that," the man said nodding toward the phone Matthew previously threw, while plunging his hand into the pocket of his jacket; making sure not to break eye contact. Then curtly pulled out a cell phone, which screen displayed an ongoing call, one of which Matthew never ended. Matthew's eyes flickered at the screen; he was relieved that it had only been one of Alfred's friends.

"T-that was you?" Matthew squeaked, blushing slightly as he found himself to be articulate. The man looked down to his phone, pressed the screen a few times, and then looked up again, resuming the eye contact before allowing himself into Matthew's room.

Matthew anxiously watched as the man made his way towards the small bookshelf, and as he began to greedily pull books from place. Cringing as he witnessed the previously organized books fall to the floor.

"Does that surprise you..." He trailed off his tongue searching for a name, his hand firmly settling on one of Matthew's past yearbooks, then thumbing through it quickly; observing very little. His eyes seemed uninterested in the majority of the contents, though when his fingers reached the end of the book, his eyes flickered at the sight of the few names listed, quoting cheerful wishes for summer. "Matthew?"

"I—" Matthew stopped him. He was positive this man has never made his acquaintance, and felt odd when his tongue pushed his name in such a foreign voice. Although the smell of alcohol had yet to pierce his nose, Matthew was still certain the man was drunk, and had forgotten any social rules sustainable to first impressions.

He took a deep breath as the violet eyes never seemed to stray from his own, and took a seat on his bed.

"Are you, uh..." Matthew started as the man dropped the yearbook, along with his gaze, and moved to the book resting on Matthew's bed, a small smirk playing on his dry lips as he captured a glimpse of the title, _Crow's Row._ "Enjoying the party?"

The man's hair swayed as he looked out the window that he never bothered to close, and scoffed. "_That's_ what you consider a party?"

Matthew took the opportunity to graze the time, 3:10. It had only been five minutes the man entered his room, yet the tense atmosphere suggested otherwise. He had already perturbed the neat and organized formation of books in the books, and was now sticking his nose into Matthew's homework.

"I-I see. A-are you good friends with A-Alfred?"

The man raised a brow, book still in hand as a hint of panic seemed to warp into his features. "Alfred?" Seeing the panic in Matthew's eyes, he cocked his head back and gave out a reassuring chortle.

"Ah, he the one in charge of the shit-fest out there?" he said gesturing towards the window.

"Y-yeah, weren't you invited by him?"

"Uh, yeah, he didn't give me his name," muttered the man, putting down the book, his eyes traveling to a white, stuffed bear.

"Weird, u-usually he only invites his close friends," Matthew sheepishly added. The man cocked a brow and reached for the bear, his hand itching to feel the pliable fur.

"You telling me _all _those shit-faced messes are his close friends?"

"M-more or less," Matthew said, his face tinging red slightly. He watched anxiously as the man grabbed the bear, the one he dubbed, Kumajiro, or something like that, and brought it to his face. Before he could do anything farther, Matthew quickly seized the bear from his hands, and hugged it firmly to his chest.

"D-do you mind?" Matthew quietly chided turning his head to look at the clock. 3:13

"Ah, I see," the man sighed, walking towards the window, which was still stiffly ajar. "I guess that's all I need anyway." He hopped out the window, and turned back, crouching on the roofing. Seeing that Matthew was still sitting on his bed, he half-way entered the room again, staring intently at the teen.

"Well, come on" he said nodding outward.

"Huh?"

"Matthew," the man breathed in and out, each seeming overly dramatic. "You're coming with me."

"Uh, er I-I have homewo—"

"It wasn't a question, get your shoes, let's go."

"W-what? Wait a second! I-I don't even know you."

"Really?" the man scoffed, crossing his arms. Matthew shook his head with agreement. "You always watch the news?"

"What does that h-have to do with anythi—" He was yet again cut off by the man as he reached out and turned Matthew's head towards his television set.

Matthew's eyes widened with anticipation. "Oh my g-gosh,"

_As we pull up the latest events, it seems as if the perpetrator has left behind a form of identification, though detectives are left in the skeptics as it may be a deliberate aberration. Although the picture ID shown may turn out as bogus, we advise any civilians to keep caution to the person shown, as well as the name Gilbert Beilschmidt._

The picture was undoubtedly the same man that had been in Matthew's room for the last 15 minutes or so, though his hair was cut much shorter, brushing just past his ears and his face was cleaner, portraying a calm and composed vibe to which his current state could not express.

"It's an old picture, can't say no one won't recognize me now though, those bastards will make anything public if it gets them any closer to locking up my ass."

"H-how can you be so casual? You-you're a killer! You've seen the blood of another man on your own hands, and you think I'm just going to walk out with you?"

"Good point, let's go."

"N-no,"

Any tolerance the man had stocked in his mind had finally run dry. "I'm not giving you the pleasure of choosing, you're coming with me. Now get your shoes and let's go." The words seemed to linger, every note draining from his throat were dull yet deliberate, suggesting the man was no longer in the mood to procrastinate.

Matthew wanted to protest, but the mixture of alcohol and exhaustion clouded any sincere judgment he had within him. He found himself complying as he grasped his shoes and switched the lights off. As he stepped onto the roofing himself, he gave one last look into the darkness of his room, his eyes being drawn to the bright red numbers on his clock. 3:16am. All sound was blocked from his ears, the music, the sirens, the man's harsh instructions, even his own crying.

_3:16am the time I was kidnapped by Gilbert Beilschmidt._


End file.
